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Hann Bunn
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Hann Bunn

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The bin vans round here have "nur-nur-nur, This Vehicle is Reversing" noises, which I know I'd never heard before 2006. The nur-nur-nur is a lot louder than the voice part, which led to me worrying that I'd set off an alarm on something when I was actually hearing a cul-de-sac being navigated down.
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Hampshire Brony's profile photoAbigailR84's profile photo
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+AbigailR84 The thing most likely to cause insanity:
BEEEEEEEP Stand well clear. Vehicle reversing. BEEEEEEEP Stand well clear. Vehicle reversing. BEEEEEEEP Stand well clear. Vehicle reversing. BEEEEEEEP Stand well clear. Vehicle reversing.
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Hann Bunn

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Adele Taylor originally shared:
 
The chances of me doing anything more with this are slim, so I'll just post it here to see what other people think. Another scrap of fiction from my pretty depressed brain.
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So cold. Cold and alone. Drifting alone in the blackness of space. No hope of being found before my meagre supply of oxygen runs out. At least I would be spared a long agonising death. That was my only hope. There had been stories of lost flyers found weeks, months or years later, having died of thirst or starvation after drifting, trapped in their little capsules for days. The torment they must have gone through in that time. At least I would be spared that. I was lucky that my particular failure was a hit to the oxygen tank - the tank that supplied both the engines and my breathable air. If the dashboard reading was accurate - and I hoped to whatever gods existed that it was - then I had just over an hour left. An hour of drifting, tumbling in space. No power to keep me moving, only inertia. The left-over momentum of my flight and the collision that had wrecked my flyer and set it spinning. Spinning and drifting, alone and cold. Along in the cold dark.

I could feel my thoughts fragmenting already. Maybe the meter was wrong after all, maybe I had even less oxygen than it thought. Or maybe it was the shock. If I was very lucky maybe I'd lose consciousness soon and not have to continue watching the distant stars drift past slowly, aware of being trapped and unable to move, contemplating my own imminent death.

I wondered why I was so calm. Shouldn't I be panicking? I was dying, I was sure of that. Trapped. Alone. Cold. No hope of rescue.

I don't recall the radio message, although I am told I responded. I don't remember the ship arriving or being cut out of my seat. I only remember the immediate aftermath of the accident, and how empty the universe seemed.
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David Lozano's profile photo
 
well written +Adele Taylor 
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Hann Bunn

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Sir John Hardy originally shared:
 
As the debate over Zynga—and social games in general—became an industry obsession, Bogost was asked to speak at several conference panels and academic colloquiums. Before a seminar at New York University called Social Games on Trial, he decided that instead of creating the usual series of slides to accompany his talk, he would design a game that would illustrate what he saw as the worst abuses of social gaming in the clearest possible manner. That way, rather than just listening to his argument, people could play it.

Remembering his cow-clicker idea, Bogost threw together a bare-bones Facebook game in three days. The rules were simple to the point of absurdity: There was a picture of a cow, which players were allowed to click once every six hours. Each time they did, they received one point, called a click. Players could invite as many as eight friends to join their “pasture”; whenever anyone within the pasture clicked their cow, they all received a click. A leaderboard tracked the game’s most prodigious clickers. Players could purchase in-game currency, called mooney, which they could use to buy more cows or circumvent the time restriction. In true FarmVille fashion, whenever a player clicked a cow, an announcement—”I’m clicking a cow“—appeared on their Facebook newsfeed.

And that was pretty much it. That’s not a nutshell description of the game; that’s literally all there was to it. As a play experience, it was nothing more than a collection of cheap ruses, blatantly designed to get players to keep coming back, exploit their friends, and part with their money. “I didn’t set out to make it fun,” Bogost says. “Players were supposed to recognize that clicking a cow is a ridiculous thing to want to do.”

Bogost launched Cow Clicker during the NYU event in July 2010. Within weeks, it had achieved cult status among indie-game fans and social-game critics. Every “I’m clicking a cow” newsfeed update served as a badge of ironic protest. Players gleefully clicked cows to send a message to their FarmVille-loving friends or to identify themselves as members of the anti-Zynga underground. The game began attracting press on sites like TechCrunch and Slashdot.

And then something surprising happened: Cow Clicker caught fire. The inherent virality of the game mechanics Bogost had mimicked, combined with the publicity, helped spread it well beyond its initial audience of game-industry insiders. Bogost watched in surprise and with a bit of alarm as the number of players grew consistently, from 5,000 soon after launch to 20,000 a few weeks later and then to 50,000 by early September. And not all of those people appeared to be in on the joke. The game received its fair share of five-star and one-star reviews from players who, respectively, appreciated the gag or simply thought the game was stupid. But what was startling was the occasional middling review from someone who treated Cow Clicker not as an acid commentary but as just another social game. “OK, not great though,” one earnest example read.

In fact, despite itself, Cow Clicker was perversely enjoyable. The cartoon cow was cute, with a boxy nose and nonplussed expression. After every click, it emitted a satisfying moo. The game may have been dumb and even mean. But it was also, for some reason that resisted easy explanation, kind of appealing.

Adam Scriven, a stay-at-home dad in Burnaby, British Columbia, had been a dedicated player of social games like Zynga’s Mafia Wars when he discovered Cow Clicker. “I just dumped most of those other games and started playing this one,” he says. “Instead of stupid games that have no point, we might as well play a stupid game that has a point.” Yes, Scriven was playing ironically. But he—along with thousands of others like him—was still clicking.

http://www.wired.com/magazine/2011/12/ff_cowclicker/all/1
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Hann Bunn

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Please, if you have a few minutes, fill this in.
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imma originally shared:
 
A deliberate direct attack, then. :-)
"How do you kill the movie and TV industries? Or more precisely (since at this level, technological progress is probably predetermined) what is going to kill them? Mostly not what they like to believe is killing them, filesharing. What's going to kill movies and TV is what's already killing them: better ways to entertain people. So the best way to approach this problem is to ask yourself: what are people going to do for fun in 20 years instead of what they do now?"
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Florian Rohrweck originally shared:
 
#nowplaying
Because you can't do SCIENCE without the proper music.

Get it here: http://www.thinkwithportals.com/music.php
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Matt Gray originally shared:
 
Some creative photos of wrapped trees - wish I could have ideas like this...
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